


Choosing Sides

by zhrln



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Post-Reichenbach, Post-Season/Series 03, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2015-02-05
Packaged: 2018-03-04 08:13:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3032075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zhrln/pseuds/zhrln
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After 4 minutes of exile, Sherlock Holmes has been recalled - Jim Moriarty is seemingly back from the dead, and England needs its only consulting detective on the case. The game is on, but everything has changed: Sherlock is not a free man, and his usual partner is distracted by the immanent threat of fatherhood. Consequently, Molly Hooper is dragged in, and the more they investigate this mystery, the more there is to solve. Is Moriarty really alive - or is someone else pulling the strings? Is the entire country in danger - or is it just personal? Was turning to Molly Hooper again a mistake - or was she already involved?<br/>And perhaps the biggest question of all... Which side would Sherlock fight for, if all his angels were gone?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue - A Different Departure

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fan fiction, so naturally instead of taking it slowly I'm jumping in the deep end. This story will end up (hopefully) being quite extensive, and I'm still mapping everything out. But I'll share bits when I'm happy with them and know they won't need anything added or changed. It kicks off where Season 3 ended, and I'm trying to keep everything as accurate to the TV show as possible, so being up to date with it would probably help if you want things to make sense. Of course, no copyright infringement intended - I don't own any of the characters or original Conan Doyle story lines. I'm just a fan whiling away the time until Season 4 by writing my own interpretation of what happens next (hint: murder, mystery, mayhem, and Sherlolly!)  
> So please, feel free to comment with your thoughts and feedback, and enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock reacts to the reason for his recall from exile, and a new journey begins.

When Sherlock Holmes began the process of considering explanations for a particular case or incident, the thoroughness of his analysis was not sacrificed in its rapidity. His assessment could be both rational and quick; as long as a scenario (or combination thereof) could potentially and logically account for the data presented to him, he never missed it. On _extremely_ rare occasions, he picked the incorrect option - deduction and the balance of probability did not always triumph in the face of oddities and chaos. But given enough time to deliberate - upon receiving the facts - he never failed to acknowledge all the answers available to him.

Which was why the looping footage Mycroft had presented him with was causing the closest thing to an internal meltdown that Sherlock was capable of. He was only mildly aware of the people around him: John in his soldier’s stance with a protective arm around Mary; Mary looking back and forth between Mycroft and Sherlock with sharp eyes, _her_ arms protectively around the unborn child she carried; and Mycroft, fingers drumming across the handle of his umbrella... Expectant. Waiting.

The airport was unnervingly quiet except for the repeated question that rang out across the tarmac:

_Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you miss me?_

John had been glancing down at the tablet playing Moriarty’s foreboding message, but whipped his head back up when a new noise startled him, joining the rhythm of Moriarty’s voice - a dark, hollow sound, reverberating in his bones and sending chills throughout them.

Sherlock was laughing.

He tore his eyes from Sherlock to look with disbelief at the other Holmes, and watched Mycroft's expression falter as he took in his little brother’s reaction.

Mycroft’s eyebrows knitted together for a moment before resuming their usual, hubristic demeanour- the only physical signal of his surprise over Sherlock’s response. John, on the other hand, was not so subtle. 

“Sherlock?” His voice was hesitant and tense- he shuffled his feet and cleared his throat before continuing, the way he always did when he felt confused or confronted. “What, why are you…”

He couldn’t get the question out. Mary leaned into him and whispered in his ear, stunned: 

“He’s lost it.”

Sherlock ignored them, the twisted throaty chuckle on the verge of breaking into a cackle.

“Really, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, the disapproval lacing his tone only outdone by the underlying ripple of concern. “Pull yourself together.”

“Would someone like to explain what the bloody hell is going on?” John glanced back and forth between Mycroft and Sherlock angrily. Mary tried to take his hand, but he shook her off. “You get on a plane to leave forever, and all of a sudden _Moriarty_ appears on every screen in the country? How is he still alive?”

“He’s not,” Sherlock and Mycroft said together - Mycroft’s response was drowned in the intimidation of Sherlock’s. His laughter stopped in an instant, leaving a disturbing and heavy silence in its wake. His towering frame snapped straight, like a lightening bolt had rocketed through him.

John huffed in surprise, flinching back. “Then how is he doing this? Didn’t you see-”

“I don’t _see_ , John,” Sherlock interrupted, his words firing out with menacing precision. “I _observe_. I _observe_ the fact that this technology hijack features only a crude animation of Moriarty, and therefore cannot be live. I _observe_ that his hair line and facial markings are identical to those of just over 3 years ago, suggesting the footage and vocal track were recorded around the time of my fake suicide. I _observe_ that I never discount a possibility unless it is truly and utterly impossible. And it is truly and utterly impossible that Moriarty is alive. There is only one explanation that meets all the facts: _this was planned by Moriarty and is being executed by someone else.”_

With that, Sherlock turned on his heels and took off for the car that had driven them all to the airport. Mycroft groaned, but it sounded like he was more disapproving of Sherlock’s theatrics than he was of his deductions - of course, Mycroft had probably worked the same out for himself.

“What…” John began, dumbfounded; Sherlock was at the car now, speaking hurriedly with the driver and pulling out his mobile. Mycroft shook his head in resignation and started to walk over, and Mary went to follow, but John paused and held her back, raising his voice after Sherlock. “Why were you laughing? Where are you going!”

Sherlock was already half inside the vehicle - he leaned back out, one foot on the tarmac for balance. “Well, among other things, I now don’t have to leave England or suffer aeroplane food, neither of which were circumstances I was particularly looking forward to experiencing. More importantly, Barts!”

“Barts?” John called out, who finally gave in to Mary’s pulling and started jogging across the tarmac towards the car.

“St. Barts!” Sherlock shouted over his shoulder as he climbed in the passenger door. “I need to pay a little visit to my pathologist, and her ex!”


	2. A Study In Purple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly reacts to Moriarty's message, and reminisces on her last conversation with Sherlock.

Molly Hooper couldn’t move. The shock had paralysed her, muscles frozen in place while her heart hammered so loudly she could hear it in her temples. That face, that voice… Nothing could have prepared her for seeing it plastered on her computer screen. The mumbles of annoyance and confusion issuing from the labs around her suggested it wasn’t just her computer that was experiencing the… Glitch. While her body became a statue with fright, her mind raced ahead. Not in a panic, funnily enough, but cooly - calmly. ****

_Moriarty is dead. I signed off on the post-mortem myself. Sherlock saw him shoot himself. There’s no way he’s alive… Is there?_

Molly gave a violent start as her phone went off in her lab coat pocket. Even on silent, the buzz was enough to jolt her back into reality. She fumbled for it, and saw the text she’d received displayed on the lock screen:

 

_We’re coming. Prepare him._

_-SH_

 

Of course. Sherlock wanted her to recall Moriarty’s report and preserved remnants to search for potential clues. He was, as usual, one step ahead of everyone. The idea that Moriarty was anything but dead terrified her beyond belief, short of the death of those she cared about. But Moriarty’s existence had become inextricably linked with loved lives being threatened… She wasn’t at all surprised that Mycroft had cut Sherlock’s mission short - after all, what was some undercover work in the south of France compared to the imminent threat of a Moriarty-style attack on England? No doubt Mycroft was secretly glad to have an assignment close to home for Sherlock that would be big enough to act as atonement for the Magnussen murder.

 _No_ , Molly thought sadly. _Even Mycroft wouldn’t wish this._

Mycroft knew Moriarty - had witnessed the havoc he’d wreaked in Sherlock’s life, and in the lives of the nearly everyone in the entire country. His little brother’s comfort was not worth the return of that evil man.

Besides, Mycroft had used his considerable influence over the British government to get Sherlock out of prison time and into “community service” instead (as she'd thought of it), barely a stone’s throw away from English soil. He would have felt no guilt over Sherlock’s departure, and Sherlock hadn’t appeared angry with his older brother when he’d come to take leave of Molly.

Molly sighed, shaking her head. Had that conversation really occurred only yesterday? It felt more like a lifetime ago… But maybe she was already subconsciously linking it to times passed, when her conversations with Sherlock weren’t so few and far between.

Sherlock had not been the same since the day she’d slapped him repeatedly for using. Not that she regretted it. If anything, she wished she’d slapped him again for the comment regarding her engagement - or more specifically, its absence. She’d seen something in that moment, however, that she hadn’t seen before; something in his eyes when he’d looked at her after the first slap. What was it? Shock? Probably. But more than that… Guilt? No, it was… Confusion. Confusion to the point of near-panic. Why on earth was Sherlock _confused_ by her actions? Was he so high he couldn’t comprehend her opinion of the implications of his injecting filth into his system? She couldn’t believe that, but had demanded an apology regardless (so her reasons were perfectly clear); only to have him sass her, make an off-handed comment and deduction to aggravate John, then whip out his phone and saunter out the door. Nevertheless, she couldn’t get his expression out of her head - like a dear caught in the headlights: realising its mistake, but unable to escape. 

Incident after incident then transpired over the next few months such that Molly Hooper was forced to conclude that Sherlock not only didn’t “count” her anymore, but didn’t even consider their relationship worthy of the flirtatious manipulation he’d previously afforded her. She would have gone as far to say that he’d been avoiding her, if she was irrational and self-centred enough to think such thoughts. In spite of having long gotten used to the fact that Sherlock didn’t operate with consideration to her, it hurt when his visits to St. Barts decreased to a trickle and almost stopped entirely (he would still refuse to take the word of any other pathologist on a subject or accept their quote of a record until Molly had confirmed they were speaking the truth or definitively made the call herself, but then he’d be gone without so much as a nod or exclamation). She could have ignored his requests for her, fought rudeness with rudeness… Instead she’d told herself it didn’t matter, that it was Sherlock being Sherlock, and nothing more. She’d gagged on her coffee and had been close to choking to death for a full 5 minutes when Mary had casually dropped into their catch-up conversation the fact that Sherlock was dating Janine, the curvaceous and bubbly brunette from her wedding party. She’d resisted the urge to question Mary, and Mary had perceptively changed the topic after Molly had recovered. She was glad then that his Bart’s visits had dissipated into near-nothingness, not sure whether she could face meeting him and reading the truth of the situation in his eyes. Which would be worse: finding out it was all a ruse to extract some kind of information or usefulness from Janine, or discovering that Sherlock Holmes was in actual fact capable of romantic feelings towards a member of the opposite sex, and simply did not register Molly as a candidate for attraction? 

The answer to that horrible question was thrust upon her in the events following a phone call from John, telling her that Sherlock had been shot while on a case. Shot, died on the table, scraped back to life through some miracle, and was now in a critical condition. She’d abandoned her work without a single thought for letting any of her superiors’ know she was leaving and raced to Sherlock’s side. He was unconscious and heavily dosed up on morphine - she’d frowned at the thought of his pleasantly surprised manner upon waking to find that he had free and unlimited access to drugs. Knowing him, he’d probably take the first opportunity to clear the floor of its stock, claiming it as necessary for his next “case”. She’d thought about having a word with the staff to warn them, but it hadn’t felt right berating Sherlock’s name while he lay there, near-death and defenceless. The clinically bland hospital decor made him look so pale and lost that before she could stop herself, she’d slipped into the gift shop and purchased a bunch of assorted purple and lilac flowers, asking one of the on-call nurses whether he could spare anything to use as a vase. He’d left and returned with a suitable vesicle filled with water, handing it to Molly, then watched as she arranged the bouquet. 

“That’s a nice idea, love,” he’d said, “is he a relative of yours? Boyfriend?”

“No, he’s… No.” Molly had replied lamely. He’d stood there for a moment before “hmmph”ing and bustling out of the room. She sat down on the edge of the bed, kicking herself for not lying (she’d most likely be booted out now for not being a family member or significant other) and wondering over her stupidity at such a pointless impulse buy. 

When the cold hand had touched hers, she’d jumped so vigorously that she’d knocked the table the flowers were sitting on, causing them to wobble ominously before settling back into their vertical beauty. Her eyes had snapped to his, finding them open, but clouded.

“Molly,” he’d croaked, just audible, a smile playing at the corner of his lips. 

“Sherlock!” She’d breathed, placing her other hand on top of his. “It’s ok, you’re ok!”

“Backwards.”

“What?”

“Backwards,” he’d said again, squeezing her hand and beginning to wheeze. “Good… Advice…”

His eyes had rolled back into his head then, and she’d pressed the call button, unable to pull herself from his grasp to reach the morphine dial - in no time at all the nurse was with them, Sherlock had relaxed back into oblivion, and she was being very politely - but firmly - asked to leave. 

She’d returned later the next day, peeking into the room before entering, and was struck by the obvious changes: he was still there, still seemingly unconscious, but more notably upright and alert-looking; his brow was creased - she’d have said he was in his mind palace if she hadn’t known better; other visitors had copied her and left flowers (she couldn’t fathom who, considering Sherlock didn’t exactly surround himself with gift-giving friends and well-wishers); and several newspapers were strewn across his lap. Even from the doorway she could see they were all boasting lewd headlines concerning his (presumably now ex) relationship with Janine.

So he’d been using her. Molly had been jealous of Sherlock’s connections with other women (or with The Woman, to be precise) in the past, but she wasn’t delusional. There was no way articles with titles like those could be true; therefore, they were vengeance. Clever vengeance too - Janine’d probably earned herself a pretty sum of cash doing the interviews. Molly hadn’t been able to find any sympathy for Sherlock over finally having someone use him the same way he used everyone, and wasn’t interested in the possibility that he’d wake up and want to discuss it, so she’d left.

Lestrade had caught up with her later that evening to report that Sherlock had gone missing from the hospital, and to ask whether she’d seen him. 

“Why would I?” She’d sniped, and instantly regretted it when Lestrade appeared perplexed by her reaction. Sherlock’s behaviour wasn’t Lestrade’s fault. She’d compelled her tone and manner to be lighter as she’d explained the nature of her home as one of Sherlock’s bolt-holds, but she’d insisted he wasn’t currently using it, and tried to make it clear to Lestrade that he wouldn’t being doing so any time soon.

It was during this meeting with Lestrade that the biggest pain was felt - pain over the realisation that Sherlock had not only almost died, but would not be thinking of her concern or utilising her services as a friend in response. 

She couldn’t understand why, but Sherlock was fading from her life. 

She’d cried herself to sleep that night, Toby curled up against her forehead, softly meowing and patting her cheek when she got too loud.

And then out of the blue, months later, Sherlock had appeared at the morgue right as she was about to break for lunch. He didn’t sweep into the room like usual, or materialise at one of the work benches, shooting questions at her and finding pit-falls in her latest work. She’d been finishing up sterilising her hands when she’d heard a knock at the door. 

“I’ll be there in a minute, Lenny,” she'd called out at who she’d presumed was her lunch buddy - he must have changed his mind about not waiting for her. “Don’t want to get any fungus in my sandwich!”

“That would be distasteful,” an all-too-familiar voice had replied. “May I come in?”

She’d spun on the spot, her hands dripping water all over the floor. He’d loomed in the doorway: smirking at her current state, dark curls falling just below the collar of his customary belstaffcoat, that much less worn but infinitely preferred deep purple scarf wrapped around his neck.

“Sherlock!” She’d exclaimed, unable to stop the surprise from seeping into her voice. “Since when do you ask?”

He’d narrowed his eyes at her, but had made no reply as he’d entered the room. He’d stood and watched as she'd dried her hands, plainly wanting to speak (very like him), but holding his tongue (very unlike him).

“Yes?” Molly’d said, turning towards him, dropping the used paper towel into the nearby bin.

“Are you well?” Sherlock had asked. 

She hadn’t known whether to raise her eyebrows in surprise or furrow them in concern. 

“Yes, thank you. Sherlock, are you alright?”

“Why does there have to be something wrong with me for me to be allowed to enquire after your wellbeing?” Sherlock had said, the tone of the phrase almost curving into a bite - but he’d appeared to steady himself before ending the sentence with polite placidity.

A lightbulb had flicked on in Molly’s head. 

Sherlock was trying to be nice.    

She hadn’t been able to help it: her forehead had crinkled in her scrutiny of him, and her heart had begun the warning patters signalling that something was amiss.

“There doesn’t. But you don’t seem ok. Are you sure there’s nothing wrong? You can talk to me, remember?” 

She’d winced in spite of herself - she hadn’t meant for the question to come out sounding so… _Pleading._ The longer Sherlock had been out of her life, the easier it had been to pretend that his absence didn’t matter. And after a while, it’d stopped feeling like pretending. Thinking of him still sent old feelings and pains pumping through her - memories of his soft blue eyes appraising her, his tousled hair beautifully framing his angular features… But it was bearable. Nothing like the way it had been when they’d first met, when she’d been practically possessed with superficial idolisation for the man. No, thanks to a lot of things - one of them being Tom (she felt a pang of something akin to nostalgia thinking his name) - she no longer saw Sherlock in that filtered, rose-coloured light. It didn’t mean she didn’t care though; if anything she cared more. But taking him down from the pedestal she’d placed him on had cast a previously unseen shadow over their relationship, and she’d been finding it nearly impossible to balance on the tight rope between being there for Sherlock and being used by Sherlock. His absence had forced the recollection of a third option, the platform behind her: being nothing to Sherlock. And strangely, the scariest thing of all wasn’t the possibility of returning to that platform as a consequence of Sherlock’s increasingly distant behaviour, but knowing that she could cope with it, if it happened.

She’d thought she could, anyway. Apparently his presence was all that was needed to throw her off again, and a part of her hated him - and herself - for that.

Maybe he’d deduced the direction of her thoughts and was uncomfortable, or maybe it was a force of habit, but he’d shifted his gaze around the room, and she’d almost been able to hear his brilliant brain whirring away as it compartmentalised the visual data.

“I never forget that which is important to me. As do none of your work colleagues, I’m glad to see - at least on this occasion.”

“Pardon?”

“Traces of glitter underneath your fingernails, most likely from a hallmark card,” he’d observed, taking her hand, “especially given the signs of confetti swept into the corner, and the used paper plates and utensils in your waste basket - your work colleagues surprised you in your laboratory two days ago in celebration of your birthday. Rather unhygienic, but you’ve no doubt not had time to finish your cleaning,” he’d released her hand to gesture at the petri dishes on her work bench, “what with your current fascinating exploration into fungal matter. Was the cake nice?” He’d glanced at the bin again. “… Fudge?”

“And salted caramel.”

“Decadent.” 

Molly had leant against the bench, crossing her arms. 

“Did you really drop in just to wish me a belated happy birthday?”

“No,” Sherlock had said, a little sharp in response to her continued lack of credence. “I also came to give you this.”

He’d reached up towards his scarf and grasped it, untwisting it from his neck before folding and presenting it in his up-turned hands. 

“I believe the colour’s a favourite of yours, judging from the wider smile and longer eye contact you exhibit in response to a shirt of mine in a similar shade.”

He’d not been mistaken about her preference, but she’d hoped he would interpret the blush creeping up her neck as embarrassment over the gift, instead of connecting it to the real reason she preferred the aforementioned item of clothing - a reason wholly unconnected to its colour.

“Sherlock, I can’t, you’ll-”

“I’m still in possession of my navy scarf, so there’s no need to fear that I won’t be protected from the elements,” he’d interrupted brusquely. “The fibre blend combination of this one is not as waterproof as the pure wool, but should suffice in anything but a downpour.” His voice had lowered. “It’s not a birthday present as such, more a token of remembrance, but I hope it will be nonetheless acceptable.”

“I… Thanks.” She’d been puzzled by his choice of words, but had hooked the material around her neck regardless, pulling the ends through the created loop; the way he wore it. It was still warm. “Really. Thank you.”

There was no faking her sincerity. Sherlock’s face had broken into a proper smile then - genuine and crinkly-eyed.

“I would have communicated all of this earlier, but I was busy with a rather perilous case which almost ended in my death-”

“I heard.”

“-and John’s-”

“I’m not surprised.”

“-but instead has resulted in my immanent deportation as a consequence for killing one Charles Augustus Magnussen.”

“…WHAT?”

Molly’d staggered, head reeling, but Sherlock had shot out a hand and grabbed her forearm to steady her.  
“I shot Charles Magnussen, a known blackmailer and all-round atrocious excuse for a human being, in order to irreversibly hinder his manipulation of certain individuals and by extension the entirety of England, through his uncanny ability to remember large quantities of sensitive information. Interestingly,” Sherlock paused, looking both impressed and disgusted, “he used the same memory technique that I employ. I like to believe that my mind palace is somewhat more sophisticated in presentation and layout, but I suppose now we’ll never know.”

“You’re… You’re…” Understanding over his previous phrasing rushed through her: 

_It’s not a birthday present as such, more a token of remembrance._

She’d blurted out “Being deported?” at the same time that Sherlock had said “A murderer?”

Sherlock’d tilted his head, narrowing his eyes at her again. “You’re more shocked over my exile than my taking another human life?”

“Yes! I mean no! I mean…” Molly had been unable to figure out how to phrase her feelings. To explain that just because she _knew_ she should be far more derailed by his involvement in this Magnussen man’s demise, that had no weight over what she _felt._ Sherlock was infuriating, sure: self-centred, obtuse, sociopathic… But a murderer?

The only answer to his question she'd been able to give was to ask: “When do you leave?”

“Tomorrow. I’ve been allowed a day of grace to put my affairs in order, and then I’ll be flying out in Mycroft’s personal jet. He was the one who organised the mission as a substitute for prison time, so he saw it fitting to lend the use of his own transportation.” At the mention of Mycroft, Molly could’ve sworn she’d seen a look of guilt flicker across Sherlock’s face, but it was so fleeting it could have just been sadness, or nothing at all.

“How long will you be gone for? Do you know where you’re going? What you’re doing?”

He’d grimaced at the peppering of questions.

“Six months. Southern France. Mycroft has some undercover work lined up for me that he believes will suitably act as my penance.”

Molly’d bitten down on her lip, unsure how to respond. She’d tried to consider the information (France wasn’t that far away, and six months wasn’t that much longer than the amount of time since she’d last seen him, minus the here-say and glimpses), but gained no comfort in doing so. He’d said it all so calmly, so smoothly, like a line from a play… Like a lie. She hadn’t been able to read any falsity in his face - maybe he’d relayed the information so many times over the last day that it’d started to sound rehearsed? Even so, she couldn’t shake the sense of foreboding, the feeling that Sherlock (or Mycroft) intended for this “penance” to be a lot more… Permanent. 

“Don’t suppose you’ll be wanting a pen pal?” She’d asked, trying to sound casual - and failing. 

“I don’t imagine pen pals are permitted in exile,” he’d joked back, grinning a tight lipped grin before his disposition fell back into seriousness. His phone had buzzed then, but he didn’t check it. 

“That’ll be Mycroft’s personal valet. He’s been lent to me - Mycroft’s using the further supplication of transport as a guise for my staying under supervision. It took every form of persuasion I had available to stop him from joining my visit with you, and he’s no doubt grown impatient.”

He’d swallowed hard and, after an awkward pause (not on her side - the trepidation was all his), extended a hand.

“Goodbye, Molly Hooper.”

She’d snorted, pushing the hand aside and enveloping him in a hug, straining on tippy-toe to do so. He’d startled, but returned the gesture, resting his chin gently on her shoulder.

“Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes.”

“I should thank you for the flowers. It’s comforting to know your enjoyment of the colour purple extends beyond shirts.”

She was glad the hug was hiding her face, though Sherlock could probably feel the heat emanating from her cheeks. 

“My pleasure.”

“I never forget,” he’d said again. She’d not been sure whether he was referring to the flowers, echoing his earlier sentiment over her birthday, or implying something else entirely. 

Suddenly he’d broken the hug, kissed her cheek, and was striding away. All but the cape of his coat had been out the door before she’d called after him.

“Sherlock?”

He’d leaned back into view.

“You didn’t have to get it for me - the scarf, I mean. I would’ve remembered you anyway.”

“Will you?”

He’d left without another word. She’d remained where she was for quite some time after he’d gone, stunned by the enormity of it all. His departing words had struck her as more of a request than a question. 

There were no tears - she’d simply stood there trying to process the prospect that the longest conversation she’d had with Sherlock Holmes in months was also to be their last…

Yet here he was, barely 24 hours later, texting her like nothing had changed; tersely requesting what he needed from her to aid his deductions in some big new case.

Except everything had changed. This wasn’t merely a “big new case”: Moriarty was back from the dead (or someone was having a right go at making it seem like he was), Sherlock was technically still an outlaw, and even the purple scarf strung up on the hook by the door confirmed the divergent air. As her eyes stayed fixed on the winter garment, she began to wonder whether…

Her phone pinged, breaking her reverie. She looked down at the screen.

  

_The scarf is still yours._

_-SH_

 

Molly shook her head. Sherlock Holmes: as usual, one step ahead of everyone.


	3. An Arresting Discovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John accompanies the Holmes' to the morgue, where Sherlock hopes that Moriarty's remains will give them a clue regarding his mysterious return - but someone, it seems, has other plans...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking so long to update this with the next chapter! I've been run off my feet with real-world stuff (don't you hate it when reality gets in the way of life?), but now that's calmed down I've had time to get a good amount of writing done. The more I do, however, the more it seems there is to write! I really have bitten off a lot to chew, but I'm determined to finish. Thank you for the kudos and kind comments, I hope this story continues to please! xxx

Mary’s hand squeezed his tightly, but it was all that distracted John from the man sitting in front of him in the Rolls-Royce. He couldn’t stop himself from constantly glancing at the back of Sherlock’s head - the reality that his best friend was here with him (instead of heading thousands of kilometres away) had not yet sunk in.

“Would you stop that John? Mycroft is hardly going to change his mind and make me jump from the car mid-drive.” The voice cut through the silence hanging over them, and John was about to question Sherlock’s apparent omniscience when he noticed the light blue eyes laughing at him from the reflection of the front seat’s vanity mirror.

“I just don’t understand-”

“Then it’s nice to know you haven’t changed that much during my 8 minute holiday, John.”

John turned to Mycroft, ignoring Sherlock’s remark. “What’s going to happen now? As much as I’m sure your people were looking forward to having an ocean between themselves and the git in the front seat-"

“Lovely, John.”

“-you’re not going to take him straight back to the airport after he’s viewed the body, are you? He’s staying, right?”

Mycroft shifted in his seat. “I wouldn’t phrase it like that, the gesture wasn’t supposed to suggest anything permanent-"

“Of course,” Sherlock said dryly.

“-and I can assure you that, short of Moriarty’s return, nothing would have made me stop Sherlock’s departure-“

“Oh stop it Mycroft, you’re being too kind.”

“Hold on,” Mary chimed in. “I thought you said Moriarty can’t have returned? That it’s someone else?” 

“That’s simply what the evidence suggests at the present moment, Mary.” Sherlock said. “Which is exactly why you shouldn’t worry, John. Mycroft won’t be shipping me off any time soon. This is the part of the investigation he hates the most.”

“Sorry?” John said. “What part?”

“The legwork.”

At that moment they pulled up in front of the hospital, and Sherlock leapt from the car, perfectly accenting his reply. As though to contradict him, Mycroft followed suit, but his languid groan showed his true feelings over the exertion. John started to form the question of why he even _was_ accompanying them, until he got distracted by Mary unbuckling her seatbelt and making to scoot from the middle seat out onto the pavement. John gripped her arm.

“And what do you think you’re doing?”

“Getting out? That’s generally what you do when the car stops, isn’t it?”

“Not with her it isn’t,” John said, nodding towards Mary’s belly. He spoke to the driver: “Could you drive her to Baker Street, please?”

“No you don’t,” Mary said, trying to pull away. “I don’t want to miss out on the-”

“If the next word out of your mouth is ‘fun’, so help me…” John huffed. “You are carrying a _human child_ , Mary, you can’t just-”

“Oh fine, if you’re going to kick up that much of a stink about it,” Mary grouched. She slumped back inside, and John shut the door. She wound down the window.

“You both better not go dying, or I’ll kill you.”

“Promise,” John said, leaning down so he could kiss her. She called out as the car drove off: “Say ‘hi’ to Molly for me!”

John grinned as he waved. Only Mary could give a death-threat and a pleasant salutation in the same breath - all with that quirky grin playing at her lips. He must have stood watching after the car for a little longer than expected, because he swung around at the sound of throat clearing and a gruff “Are you quite done?”

He couldn’t tell which of the Holmes had asked the question - both were capable of the mix of impatience and disgust it was delivered with.

“Yes, thank you.”

They all walked up the stairs and through the entrance, Sherlock muttering under his breath. Most of what he said John missed, except for “- _domestic_ -”.

As they approached and made for the doors on the left that lead to the morgue, John noticed the usual older and jolly looking receptionist had been replaced by a younger girl with tightly curled blonde hair. She struck him as startled by their approach, so he smiled at her. She smiled nervously back, then jumped when she realised where they were heading.

 “Excuse me, sirs,” she squeaked at them, “sorry, can I help you? You can’t go down that way, that leads to the morgue. Restricted access. General admittance is over there.”

Sherlock scanned her, his eyes flickering like they always did when analysing someone.

“Where’s Denise?” He barked. The girl recoiled slightly at the authority in his tone.

“Sh-she didn’t come in today. I’m the call-in.”

Sherlock stared at her a little longer, then whipped out his phone and started texting rapidly.

“It’s ok,” John said, “we come here all the-“

“Hello, I’m Mycroft Holmes,” Mycroft interrupted him, leaning on the reception desk. “I believe Michael Richards is your head of department? He’s an old friend of mine, so if you-“

John sighed and surveyed the room idly, taking in the plain grey couches and speckled laminate floor, taping his arm against his leg. This was always the part of the investigation where he felt the most useless - he didn’t have the right words or connections to get them where they needed to go. Then again, there was never really a moment during a case when he did feel useful - unless someone was dying or needed treatment. That was one of the biggest differences between being around Mary and being around Sherlock - Mary made him feel needed. Of course, Sherlock would say that John was extremely useful to him, but being the one person Sherlock could truly tolerate to have around and bounce ideas off wasn’t exactly a talent John could list on his resume.

And yet, Mary couldn’t provide the sense of exhilaration that being on a case with Sherlock did. John hated himself for loving it. If he was willing to abandon his pregnant wife for it, what would stop him leaving his child for it? Was that the sort of father he was going to be?

The sound of the doors banging forward interrupted John’s reverie - they all looked up to see Molly striding towards them. Sherlock put away his phone, glancing smugly at Mycroft, who turned away from the receptionist with a causal “never mind”. Evidently they’d been competing to see who could get them into the morgue first.

“Hello everyone,” Molly said. “Alright, Julia?” She smiled at the girl, who still appeared baffled and intimidated by Mycroft’s spiel. “They’re with me. Board approved access, you can check with Richards. Come on you lot.”

They all followed her through the doors and down the hallway. “I sent through the paperwork to Lenard to have Moriarty’s remains and file brought out straight away,” she said as they walked, “so he should be ready.”

“I didn’t know we had board approved access,” John remarked.

“Of course you don’t,” Molly said. “Everyone here’s simply used to you barging in, and Sherlock knew about Denise’s soft spot for turkish delights. I just didn’t want to go through it with the stand-in.”

“But won’t she-“

“Julia wouldn’t go near Richards with a ten foot pole and a search warrant - that girl jumps at her own shadow. She’s only here because Denise didn’t come in. We’ve got her on lone from another hospital. Poor thing, she’s been misdirecting people all morning.”

“You’re becoming a rather cunning prevaricator, Molly,” Sherlock said. They rounded the corner and she pulled at another door, revealing a path that forked either towards the viewing platform or down a flight of stairs. She held it open for them, eyeing Sherlock evenly.

“Takes one to know one.”

“I never said I disapproved,” he winked, then passed through. Mycroft followed him, but John paused on the door step.

“Mary said to say ‘hi’.”

Molly’s face lit up. “Oh that’s nice, how is she?” She searched behind John, as though she expected Mary to be waddling after them. “Where is she?”

His face fell, and he looked away. “Back at Baker Street.”

He couldn’t see how she reacted to the obvious guilt in his tone - she must have seen how uncomfortable he was, because she changed the topic:

“Didn’t think I’d see you two back here so quickly,” she nodded her head in Sherlock's direction. “One minute he’s off to Southern France, the next Moriarty’s face is all over the country. Life with him’s never boring, is it?”

“No, it really - hold on, did you say Southern France?”

Molly regarded him blankly. “Yeah, that’s - that’s where he was going. Right?”

“Er…” John paused, unsure how to proceed. Before he had time to reply, however, they both jumped at Sherlock’s voice shouting up the stairwell.

“MOLLY!”

John threw her a sympathetic grimace and entered, secretly glad for the interruption. He wasn’t exactly sure why Sherlock had lied to Molly about where Mycroft was sending him, but he no doubt wouldn’t be pleased with whoever dobbed him in. John plodded down the stairs and into the open, startlingly bright space. He’d never liked the clinical amount of white; sure, he’d been in and out of hospitals most of his life, so he probably should’ve become used to it by now. There was something other-worldly about that level of shine, however, and it never failed to make him uncomfortable.

Sherlock was standing at the far end of the room, glaring at a man who was blocking his way into a separate hold, where the bodies must be stored. The obstacle was in his late 30s, relatively handsome except for his chronically arched posture (no doubt a result of constant bending over specimens and lab reports), and beheld Molly's entrance with relief. John peered around for Mycroft, and noticed him staring down from the viewing platform, sitting back in a chair with his umbrella hooked over the top of the safety guard.

“Molly! Thank god, tell him he can’t-”

“Molly, why did you trust such an important retrieval to this blundering-”

Molly glared at them both like a mother at her two squabbling children, then focused on her work colleague. “What’s going on Lenny? I thought you’d be ready by now.”

“As I was _trying_ to explain to Mr Holmes before he went off at me and demanded admittance to the retrieval hold, I didn’t bring out the remains-”

“Which is _why_ I wanted-“ Sherlock started again, but Molly shushed him.

“I didn’t bring them out,” Lenard repeated, “because they’ve been collected.”

His statement fell over them like a blanket, smothering everything into silence. John was the first to break it:

“What do you mean collected? You let someone take him?” 

“Where’s his folder?” Molly asked.

“I was in the process of retrieving it, when this man-“

“Let me past, Lenard,” Molly said, pushing him aside and disappearing into the hold. Sherlock began pacing back and forth, and there was a creak above them as Mycroft leaned forward in his seat. John thought he heard him talking on his phone.

“And of course I didn’t just _let_ someone take him,” Lenard said at John, “he’s been _collected_. It’s a perfectly normal thing to occur- the nearest relation of the deceased is allowed to request that no samples be taken, and collect the remains to give them a proper burial, if they so-”

“What?” John ogled at him, then at Sherlock. “I’m sorry, but _what_?”

Molly re-appeared, folder in hand, but cast it to one side on the desk and went straight over to the nearest computer. She began hammering at the keys; Sherlock strode to her side and observed over her shoulder.

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“Of course there’s nothing," Lenard said, starting to take umbrage, "I keep telling you, he’s been _collected-_ ”

"I'll collect you in a minute," Molly hissed, but Lenard continued his stream of defence:

“Why are you looking up the virtual file, it’s right- why wouldn’t I be telling the truth? It’s like I said, Richard Brooks’ mother or sister or someone must’ve come in and-”

Sherlock turned on him, flaring up with hostility. “Richard Brooks didn’t HAVE a sister. Richard Brooks didn’t EXIST.”

Lenard backed away, but John could’ve sworn he heard him whisper under his breath: “says you.”

“Excuse me?” John said, glaring at him. “Are you trying to say you believed the load of bull Moriarty concocted with that snake Kitty Riley?”

“No, I- of course I didn’t- don't,”

“You don’t sound too sure,” John growled.

“It’s just, there was ages there where that’s what was the truth - someone could’ve come and- and collected him then, there wouldn’t have been a probl-”

“They can’t have,” Molly called over her shoulder, still scanning the computer screen. “I was put in charge of Moriarty’s post-mortem. I performed it and signed off on it myself. If anyone came to make a claim, they’d have to go through me.”

“Not, not n-necessarily…” Lenard stammered before trailing off. John saw Molly’s whole frame freeze.

“Lenard, what did you do?” She spoke the words quietly, without turning to face him, and John felt that made them all the more threatening. Lenard’s eyes twitched nervously back and forth from Sherlock’s furious face to Molly’s back as he replied:

“Well, if- if the First is unfit f-for duty on a, a particular day,” he began, using their nicknames for the doctors assigned to a post-mortem, “the Second t-takes over, and-”

“ _Unfit for duty_ ”?!” Molly’s hands clenched into fists.

“It was the- the day of his - your - funeral!” Lenard pointed at Sherlock. “Someone, a lady, came in and requested the deceased and any samples taken be turned over to her. Said she was his sister - Catherine Brooks! Everything checked out and we’d finished what we needed to do, and you weren’t around to make the call, so I phoned Richards, and he said given the circumstances, I was in charge. And, and,” he puffed himself up, “might I add, there shouldn’t have even _been_ samples taken without permission from a next-of-kin, so I really don’t see why-”

“Moriarty doesn’t _have_ a-" John began, but Molly’s voice cut through like ice.

“So you decided to not only hand over everything we had on possibly the greatest criminal mastermind this or any hospital has ever seen, but wait _three years to tell me?!?_ "

Molly span on the spot and was in Lenard’s face so fast that if Sherlock hadn’t had such quick reactions and thrown an arm out to stop her, John was sure Lenard would be wearing a smart red mark across his cheek in the shape of Molly Hooper’s hand. Lenard was so startled by her rage that he stumbled backwards into the steel operating table.

“I didn’t think it mattered!” He cried. “And he wasn’t a- I didn’t- and you were in such a state, and Richard Brooks, he- he was just a guy!”

“You knew I didn’t believe that,” she spat back. “He was a psychopath!”

“So’s he!” Lenard gestured wildly at Sherlock.

“How many times - _high-functioning sociopath_ -”

“I don’t care if he’s Charles Manson, Lenny, and I don’t care if you got permission from the bloody Queen - you not only directly went against my instructions, but failed to tell me that you had. No wonder you hadn’t brought out the file - you spent the whole time dithering over how I was going to react. What on earth did you think was going to happen when I found out? I’d scratch my chin and say “well fancy that!” and send everyone on their merry way?”

The anger drained from Molly, leaving raw disappointment. “He was a _murderer_ , Lenny.”

“Well I know that _now_ ,” said Lenard, throwing his hands up with exasperation, “but we still have the file, so that should at least-”

“No, we don’t,” Molly rubbed her forehead tiredly. “It’s been erased.”

John saw Sherlock’s face grow dark, and heard another creak which suggested Mycroft had left his chair. Lenard’s mouth opened and closed several times, like a fish gasping for air.

“It’s - what?”

“Gone. According to our system, we’ve never had a Jim Moriarty, or even a Richard Brooks.”

“But you- the system tells us if someone- you have the folder right there! That’s-”

“Impossible?” She stood aside so they could all see the flashing alerts popping up across the blank search page, underneath the stream of filters Molly had typed in. Then she picked up the folder and opened it to reveal blank pages.

“Yeah, apparently not.”

John heard light footsteps overhead and a soft clunk as Mycroft opened and closed the door behind him. Lenard was wringing his hands, stammering his disbelief.

“How does, how can- I don’t-“

“Sherlock, shouldn’t we-“

“Molly,” Sherlock ignored John, pulling the pathologist away from Lenard to put a hand on either of her shoulders and focus his attention down at her. John expected her to wither under his intent gaze, but she stared resolutely back. A little surge of pride rose in John’s chest - he wasn’t sure when it’d happened, but Molly had changed into a much surer woman. He pondered whether Mary’s friendship had had any influence until Sherlock’s voice brought him back to reality.

“This is important. Everything could ride on this. How certain are you that it was Moriarty you performed the post-mortem on?”

Molly bit her lip, more from deep thought than worry. “The staff heard a gunshot and broke onto the roof shortly after your fake suicide, so I mean, there wouldn’t have been time to switch bodies, would there? No, I don’t think-“

“No conjecture Molly, I need certainty.”

The interruption didn’t break her musings. “Besides: the fingerprints, the hair and saliva samples, the DNA sample… Everything matched.” She took a deep breath. “It was definitely him.”

“You’re positive?”

“Only fools are positive.” She smiled like the words were a game.

Sherlock frowned. “Are you sure?” 

“Positive.”

Sherlock cracked a grin, still holding her shoulders, but let go when John asked:

“Couldn’t Moriarty have faked his death too somehow? Still been alive when you had him on the table, I mean?”

Sherlock waved a hand at him dismissively. “No, no, I was barely a metre away from him when he shot himself. Even if he’d rigged the gun with blanks and was wearing a disguised blood bag, I would’ve noticed, at that proximity.”

“It’s also hard to fake a wound like that,” Molly said, “and if he was alive on the table to start with, he wasn’t by the time I finished. A post-mortem’s a difficult procedure to survive.”

“Regardless, I believe we have an arrest to attend,” Sherlock said. John cocked his head, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion, but the hand Lenard was resting on the tray table began to shake, causing the tools to rattle.

“You c-can’t arrest m-me,” he stuttered, “I didn’t mean- I was only trying to-“ 

“Not you,” Sherlock said, narrowing his eyes at him. “You’re a frustratingly slow fool with a school-boy’s crush on a colleague who massively outstrips you in calibre and will now never trust you again, but as hard as I try to convince the justice system, no one will agree with me that being a blithering idiot warrants jail-time. Come on, John,“ Sherlock nodded his head towards the exit as he departed the room. John was hot on his trail, only just catching Molly and Lenard’s final exchange:

“Molly I don’t- what he said about, that’s not-"

“If you’re not buried under a pile of paperwork explaining all of this by the time I get back, there'll be another body for someone to _collect_.”

Sherlock was at the top of the stairs, passing through the door. John caught it as it went to close, holding it open for Molly, who was jogging up the stairs behind him.

“That was quite impressive,” John whispered at her. She gave him a small smile.

 “Thanks.”

He closed the door behind them, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the normal level of white. They hurried after Sherlock, who was nearly round the corner and out of sight.

“Ugh, I hate it when he does that,” John said to himself, quickening his pace. Molly breathed heavily beside him, not used to all the exercise.

“If he said… Attend an arrest… Does that mean… He already knows…”

“Who did it?” John finished for her. “That would appear to be the case, but how-“

They approached the entrance back to main reception, and John spotted a familiar figure leaning against the door, propping it open.

“Lestrade!”

Greg’s face turned towards them, and Molly and John put on a jog. “What are you doing here?”

“I thought I’d come deliver some grapes,” he called back. The closer they got, the more clearly they could see the commotion occurring at reception: Mycroft was standing to the side, leaning on his umbrella with one hand and using a handkerchief to dab at his swollen lip with the other, watching as the young girl with the tightly curled blonde hair who’d greeted them was being escorted out in handcuffs. Sherlock was standing behind her desk, studying the computer and conversing with one of Lestrade’s officers. There was also a peculiar burning smell hanging on the air.

“Oh, and perform an arrest, you know. Same thing,” Lestrade added casually.

John walked over to Sherlock. “What the hell happened?”

“Mycroft figured out at the same time that I did-”

Mycroft cleared his throat from across the room. Sherlock glared at him.

“-figured out _just before_ I did that the erasing of Moriarty’s file wouldn’t have been done by this mystery relative - Lenard made it easy for them to claim the body, but it's harder to get access to the files. Plus, destroying them at that time would cause unnecessary suspicion. I suppose they felt it didn’t matter that they were sitting there, because nobody was looking into them - until now. They must’ve known I’d come searching after Moriarty's face was smeared everywhere, and so organised to have them files removed. They’d need someone they could manipulate; someone who would have, or could easily gain, access to everything; in a position where they would see me coming so they could perform the virtual erase at the last minute. As you saw on the computer in the morgue, if the system detects a successful hack, it raises the alarm.”

Everything clicked into the place in John’s mind.

“The receptionist?” He peered outside just in time to see the head of curls being pushed into a waiting police car.

Sherlock nodded. “Exactly. I’m sure Denise is not exclusively susceptible to bribes of the turkish delight variety - it would have been simple to ensure she didn’t come in today, so our perpetrator could take her place. She used this,” he held up something that looked like a tiny USB, “to infiltrate the virtual file, and that,” he pointed at a gas lighter sitting on the desk, the kind you could pick up at ASDA for £2.50, "to destroy the physical one."

“She _set them on_ -?”

Sherlock lifted a clip folder which was sitting on top of a metal bin at the foot of the receptionist’s chair, revealing the source of the burning smell. Smoke began to billow out from the waste basket, throwing tiny black chars into the air, which were all that remained of Moriarty’s file. Sherlock quickly placed the clip folder back over the curling embers so the hospital’s smoke detectors didn’t go off.

“We think this is why she hadn't left before Mycroft arrived - either she was ensuring that the flames ate the entire file, or that they didn't burn down the entire building.”

Molly had joined them, and was shaking her head at Sherlock’s words.

“I can’t believe it. She seemed so timid…”

“Considering her frightened disposition, I believe she was threatened into action, but appearances can be deceiving - timidity can hide great fire.”

Molly was studying the scene outside, and so didn’t see the change in Sherlock’s expression as he spoke. John noticed it though, and for some strange reason he was struck with a strong sense of déjà vu - the look on Sherlock’s face reminded him of the one he'd worn after Molly had slapped him repeatedly for using. He didn't understand the connection, and before he could really think about it, it was gone, and Sherlock was continuing his explanation:

“You said yourself she’d been misdirecting people all morning, yet she seemed very well acquainted with the location of the morgue - pre-judging it as our goal. As for the exact mechanics and motivation, and why whoever orchestrated it cut everything so fine, and didn't simply use Denise... I can’t say. Not yet, at least - Lestrade’s taking her in for questioning.”

“And Mycroft?” John asked.

“Oh don’t mind me,” Mycroft said dryly, still holding the delicate white material to his mouth. “I only called the police and stopped the woman from escaping.”

John had to hold back a laugh. “What, really? _You?_ ”

Mycroft scowled. “She was mid-flee when I arrived. What was I supposed to, let her get away?”

“Goodness, Mycroft,” Sherlock smirked. “How very _hands-on_ of you.”

“Trust me, I was duly rewarded for my trouble.” He twitched in pain as he pulled the handkerchief away from his mouth. “I am not suffering through any more of this sort of, of  _toiling_  - Lestrade, if you’d be so kind.”

Mycroft motioned at Sherlock. Lestrade looked sullen, his teeth gritted like he was willing them to glue together, but nonetheless said: “I’m sorry mate, but you’re going to have to come with me.” 

“For the questioning?” Sherlock shrugged. “Naturally. There are inquiries I want to make that I don’t trust anyone else to posit-”

“No Sherlock,” Lestrade interrupted him. “Not for the questioning. You’re sort of-”

He glanced at Mycroft, who nodded. Lestrade sighed. “-under arrest.”

“… _What?!_ ”


	4. The Silent Snitch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is furious over his "arrest" and its consequences, and attends the interrogation of the woman who destroyed Moriarty's records.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been on a bit of a writing spree the last few days, and figured, why wait to share the next chapter? Thank you for the kudos and kind words, they're keeping me very motivated! xxx

“This is _completely_ ridiculous,” Sherlock scowled, firstly down at the officer securing what looked like a black bracelet to his ankle, and then at Lestrade. “And why did I have to ride in the back of your police car?”

Lestrade stood with his hands in his pockets, watching the proceedings with a grin. “I was giving you a lift Sherlock, keep your shirt on.”

“I easily could’ve joined the others-”

“Mycroft’s car hadn’t returned from dropping Mary off, and he said his people wanted this done as soon as possible.”

“But why the _back_?”

Lestrade put up his hands.

“Alright, you got me there. I thought it’d be hilarious as hell to see you in the cage of a police car.” Lestrade’s smile nearly split his cheeks. “And I was right.”

Sherlock gave his surroundings a prompt inspection. There were 6 objects within his reach that he could throw at Lestrade, not including the chair he was sitting on. Then again, Lestrade would probably be hesitant to let Sherlock question the receptionist after having the furniture thrown at him. He forced himself to accept the logic of not responding - people really were insufferable sometimes, even the ones he liked.

“There,” the officer at his feet said. “All done.”

“Thank you Al… Er…” Lestrade clicked his fingers. “Al… Sorry-”

“Algar, sir.”

“Right, Inspector Algar. Sorry,” Lestrade apologised again.

“Not to worry, sir,” the man smiled. His teeth were incredibly straight; a shining white strip settled beneath his perfect nose, providing contrast to the pitch black hair swept across his forehead. Sherlock also noticed he didn’t wash his own clothes, had only recently started wearing his watch again, and chewed triple strength breath mints. “I’ll go check to see if Miss Wilson is ready.”

Inspector Algar left the room. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at Lestrade.

“Newbie,” he explained. “Transfer from Liverpool. Only been here a week - name hasn’t sunk in yet.”

“What do you need him for?”

Lestrade scoffed. “Well Anderson doesn’t look like he’ll be returning any time soon, Morgan’s just gone on leave ‘cause her mother’s ill, and Donovan and I can’t run the whole department by ourselves.”

“Fair enough. He’s, ah…” Sherlock coughed. “He’s quite a…”

“Pretty-boy?”

“I was going to say ‘genetic-lottery winner’, but I suppose the two are synonymous.”

“Nah, I’ve bet Donovan ten pounds that he’s meddled with himself. Still, his record is good - did some great work on a case a while back involving some severed ears in a box-”

At that moment, John appeared, and Sherlock was thankful to be spared the details of a case that (since he’d not been notified of it) had obviously not been worth his name and time, and for a fresh opportunity to complain.

 “You took long enough - I’ve been tagged like a dog in your absence. Where’s Mycroft?”

“He left. Says he’s done enough legwork to last him a lifetime.”

“Did he explain _this?_ ” Sherlock pulled up the end of his trouser pant so he could brandish his new accessory.

“I already told you,” said Lestrade, “it’s a house-arrest monitor. It’s for-”

“I know what it’s _for_ ,” Sherlock hissed at him. He hated it when someone took his words and made incorrect assumptions from them. He could tolerate not being understood, because it gave him a chance to flex his intelligence, but being misunderstood was another matter entirely. “I want to know _why_. How does Mycroft expect me to investigate properly if I’m not allowed to leave Baker Street?”

John crouched down to get a closer look at the tracking device before answering: “He said it was the only way his people would agree to let you take the case. You’re allowed - with permission - to leave for anything related-”

“' _With permission'-?_ ”

“-but he said they didn’t want a murd-" his voice hitched, adams-apple bobbing. Sherlock made a mental note for later reflection: John was feeling conflicted over the Magnussen incident.

John cleared his throat before starting again: “They didn’t want you giving or getting the impression of your freedom.” He contemplated Sherlock with an annoyingly sincere expression. “Considering they could’ve refused to let you take the case at all, you should be grateful.”

“Marvellous,” Sherlock said, throwing his hands in the air. “I’m supposed to be _grateful_ that I’m being nailed to the ground with a 50 foot tether, because I'll occasionally be taken out for walks... Mycroft, of all people, should understand that _everything_ is relevant in a case like this. It’s absolutely-”

“How hard is it to get off?” John asked Lestrade.

“You have to have the key, which is currently sitting in Algar's pocket. If you force it, there's a cable that records any unauthorised removal... So pretty impossible.”

Sherlock made a derisive sound. “The only reason this thing is staying attached to me is because I’m _letting_ it-"

“And what does it do if he runs?”

 “Well, apart from the fact that the GPS tracker will be able to see exactly where he’s going, if he gets 50 yards beyond the programmed location, it sets off an alarm here at the station,” Lestrade tapped a plain looking instrument wired into the computer mainframe, grinning again. “And delivers a little shock.”

“Has it been activated yet?”

“The security band has, but we won’t switch the system on until-”

“Of course it’s switched off, I’m more than 50 yards from Baker Street aren’t I?” Sherlock said bitterly. “If it was on I would be getting-”

A piercing _beep beep beep_ filled the air, mingled with a faint buzz - the black band gripped at Sherlock’s leg and he felt a pulse shoot out through his nervous system, like a lightening-fast spider weaving out a web. It wasn’t so much painful as it was simply debilitating; though it was painful enough. He wasn’t aware of his body convulsing - his back arching, his fingers gripping the armrests of his chair - until he flopped back into neutral, the pain gone as quickly as it had come. He breathed heavily, his leg tingling.

“ _-shocked_.” He finished his sentence, then looked absolute daggers at Lestrade, whose hand was floating above the main switch.

“Sorry, my finger slipped.” He failed miserably in his attempt to sound innocent.

It was very lucky that Inspector Algar chose then to come back into view and inform them that Julia Wilson was ready for questioning - only the draw of an unsolved case was enough to stop Sherlock from abandoning the selection of projectile weapons and tackling Lestrade into the ground himself. He sprang to his feet and followed Inspector Algar from the room, straightening his scarf as he walked, his mind racing through the targets he needed this interview to hit.

“She’s in a bit of a state,” Algar told them as they walked. “Keeps asking for her brother.”

“Not her lawyer?” Sherlock interjected.

“Nope - definitely brother. Wanting to know where he is, begging us to bring him in.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock mused. This was going to be interesting.

“Let me go in first,” Lestrade said. “You can observe while I run through the rights and basic stuff.”

Sherlock and John went through the door that Inspector Algar had opened for them to their right, while Lestrade took one a few metres down. Sherlock’s eyes flicked around, an ingrained habit for taking in details, but in this instance it was hardly necessary. The darkened walls and minimal furnishings were as familiar to him as Baker Street - he’d been in this observation room thousands of times, looking on as people of varying degrees of criminality were subjected to their personal inquisition.

The receptionist was sitting on the other side of the two-way mirror. She looked like she was on the verge of a nervous breakdown, her curls falling about as her thin frame shook with fright. She was hugging herself tightly, tears dripping down her freckled cheeks. Sherlock’s review went further: she played hockey, her drink of choice was cappuccino, and she spent a lot of time and money on her hair. And she was young - not a day over 25.

“I’m no expert,” said John, “but that doesn’t look like the face of a criminal mastermind to me.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Sherlock agreed. “I believe my threat-theory is about to be confirmed.”

The moment Lestrade entered the room, she whimpered at him: “Please, please, bring me my brother, where is he? Oh Eddy, please-”

Lestrade worked to calm her as she stammered out answers to his foundational questions, but Sherlock wasn’t listening to anything she said. The subconscious graces, the physical - that was what sustained his attention. More often than not, it was the body that spoke greater volumes than the words.

“Oh, by the way,” John said - he’d witnessed Sherlock’s methods for long enough to know that he was still allowed to talk to him at this stage of the process, “Molly Hooper’s probably going to want a word with you.”

Sherlock’s focus broke. “What?”

“Why did she think Mycroft was sending you to Southern France instead of Eastern Europe?”

Sherlock scrutinised him. “How do you know that?”

John shrugged. “It came up when we were talking at the entrance to the morgue.”

“Did you correct her?”

John shuffled his feet.

“I, er…”

“ _Did you correct her, John?_ ”

“I didn’t _not_ correct her…”

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose, scrunching his eyes in exasperation. He didn’t need this right now.

“John…”

“Hey, it’s your fault for lying in the first place. Why didn’t you tell her the truth? And what was with all the, you know…” He trailed off, making a motion like he was taking someone invisible by the shoulders.

“The _what_ , exactly?” Sherlock snapped.

“’I never said I disapproved’?” John quoted. “I thought your days of flirting with Molly were in the past.”

Sherlock felt his whole body tense.

“I wasn’t _flirting_ ,” he said, spitting the word, unable to hide his immediate defensiveness.

John pulled a face. “Calm down, I didn’t mean anything by it - you used to flirt with her all the time whenever you wanted something. I was just wondering what your reasons were.”

“Maybe I was trying to keep her distracted so she didn’t ask about Southern France - a pointless effort, since you went and blabbed-”

“I didn’t _blab-_ ”

Sherlock blocked him out, attempting to concentrate on the interrogation. He wasn’t going to be able to explain to John why he’d lied to Molly about the destination of his exportation, because he hadn’t been able to explain it to himself. He’d tried - the best he’d been able to come up with was the fact that Molly knew Eastern Europe was where he went all those years ago after his fake suicide, to begin the process of dismantling Moriarty’s network. If he’d repeated the location, maybe she would have guessed the actual level of danger he was entering into.

But why would it have mattered if she’d known? John had known - or at least, had surmised - the finality of his departure…

No, he couldn’t make sense of it - and that infuriated him. He wasn't used to not being able to label his actions and rare feelings with logic. All he knew was that when he’d been telling her goodbye, he’d seen how sad and worried the news had made her, and he’d reacted to ease it, without thinking. Then seeing her at St. Bart’s, witty and spirited without a hint of her old timidity - again, he’d unconsciously reacted to enhance it. He’d spent so long away from her that he supposed he’d forgotten how raw and open her feelings could be - which was why he’d stayed away in the first place, considering that-

Sherlock gave his head a hard shake, dismantling the train of thought. He wasn’t going to let himself think about that; not with John standing beside him, and certainly not while he was supposed to be observing an interrogation.

He took the thoughts and put them back in the draw of his mind palace where he’d been keeping them for months, and thinking clearly again, he tuned back into Lestrade’s questioning.

“You don’t deny that you stole and destroyed the folder? That you used a hacking device to erase the file?”

“N-n-no.”

“Ok, then why did you do it?”

Julia swallowed, and said through quivering breaths: “I- I can’t tell you. But please, if you bring-”

Lestrade sighed. “Miss Wilson, we’re on your side. We can’t help you if you won’t help us. You remove the files of Jim Moriarty’s alter-ego Richard Brooks on the very day he announces his apparent return, you anticipate the arrival of Sherlock Holmes and his colleagues and knew to wait until the last moment to carry out the virtual erase. How? Why?”

“Please, just bring in Eddy, I can’t, I can’t-”

“Why not?”

“Because…” She took a big shuddering breath, then gulped. “They’ll get Eddy if I do.

“They?” Lestrade raised his eyebrows at the mirror, knowing those on the other side would see. He signalled with his eyes for Sherlock to join him.

Sherlock un-steepled his fingers and left the observation room, pausing outside the door between himself and the only thing that could potentially start to unravel the mystery behind Moriarty’s return. The final details of the plan he’d constructed based on what he knew and what he’d witnessed slid into place, and he smoothed his face into one of calm reassurance. Time to play the game.

Julia startled at the sound of the door opening, and her already ashen pallor grew even paler as she took in the new interrogator.

“Hello Julia. My name is Sherlock Holmes.”

“Y-yes,” she said, wiping her eyes on the sleeve of her cardigan. “I k-know who you are.”

“Wonderful.” He strode over and sat in the seat opposite her that Lestrade had vacated upon his entrance, keeping his movements as open and unthreatening as possible.

“Now Julia, we know there’s something, or someone, stopping you from talking-”

He watched as his soothing tone set about easing the girl’s tremors; it was amazing what a little intonation and subconscious physical mirroring could do.

“-but that doesn’t mean you can’t help us. I’m going to make some statements regarding your arrest and the circumstances surrounding it. You don’t have to talk, just… React as you see fit. Does that sound acceptable?”

The girl clenched her jaw, evidently trying to steel herself. She nodded.

“Good.” Sherlock settled himself in the chair. “Now. You did not engineer the theft and destruction of those hospital documents on your own.”

She was silent.

“You were given or took as needed the tools required for accessing the physical folder and hacking the virtual file.”

Silence.

“The person who gave these to you threatened to injure or kill your brother-” his eyes tightened, “-your _little_ brother, if you didn’t comply. How old is he?”

“Eddy’s four.”

“Right. Perhaps Eddy returned home to you the evening of the threat with a minor injury, seemingly coincidental, but enough to convince you of the situation’s seriousness.”

Silence.

“You were told that you had to ensure everything was destroyed, which was why you were delayed in your departure.”

His eyes darted to her hand, which had given the minutest of quivers, then back to her face.

“Alright, you had to ensure everything was destroyed, but your delay was separate from that…” His brow furrowed as his mind whirred to assimilate the information and produce a new hypothesis.

“You only had to wait to perform the hack because of the alarm it would set off, but you must have got your hands on the physical file before we arrived. Why would you wait to destroy it and almost eliminate any chance you had of escape, unless…” He leaned back. “Of course. You were hoping to be caught. Hoping you could convince us to bring Eddy into protection, so you could talk.”

Silence. He nodded, and his heart thudded in anticipation of his next two statements; the ones that would reveal whether Julia Wilson was a key piece, or a dispensable pawn.

“The person who threatened you did not use their real voice when they contacted you.”

Silence.

“Nor did they show their face when delivering what you needed to commit the theft.”

He was already turning to shake his head at Lestrade, a pre-emptive sigh on his lips, so he almost didn't see Julia’s mouth twitch. He froze.

“They did? You saw their face?”

Twitch.

“Yes! No- not their face?” Sherlock could feel himself loosing his cool in his excitement. “But you definitely had physical contact with them? Enough to be able to identify them?”

Silence.

“No? Maybe?”

Silence.

Sherlock let out the sigh he’d been holding.

“But you’re not happy to talk until Eddy’s safety is ensured.”

Her eyes began to leak again.

Sherlock looked over at Lestrade. “I think we should locate Edward Wilson and bring him in, Lestrade.”

“What about your parents?” Lestrade asked with concern. Julia shook her head.

“W-we have an aunt, that’s where- that’s who h-he’s with now. But it, it’s j-just us.”

Lestrade rubbed a hand over his face, squeezing his eyes before peeking through his fingers at the standard-issue clock hanging on the wall.

“Christ, I was meant to be at dinner with Monica ages ago…” He looked exhausted. “It’s getting too late to do anything tonight, Sherlock. Can this wait?”

Sherlock frowned. His mind wanted to continue the chase - to work without stopping until he had all the answers. He hadn’t slept since Appledore, however, and his body was beginning to make demands. They were stupid, human demands, but ones that even he had to submit to eventually.

“P-please, I swear, I n-never meant any of this t-to happen,” Julia sobbed. Some might have viewed her as weak, but considering she’d completed her task and engineered a plan of protection, all under such incredible pressure… Sherlock thought she would’ve made quite a good criminal, if she'd had the fortitude. “I didn’t m-mean to hurt that man.”

“Don’t worry, you only did what I’ve wanted to do for years,” said Sherlock. She gave an uncertain laugh, then looked at Lestrade. “What’s g-going to h-happen to me?”

“You’ve pleaded guilty to the theft and destruction of property, and attacking an innocent bystander. We have to press charges - but I don’t imagine Mycroft Holmes will, and I can’t see you getting a conviction. We’ll issue you with your court notice before you leave, or you can-”

“Wait,” Julia broke in, “I’m leaving? I’m not staying here?”

“Of course not,” Lestrade said reassuringly. “The watch-house isn’t used for people like you. It’s for felons and hooligans - and drunkards.” Sherlock could practically feel the sly, loaded look Lestrade was giving him, but he was determined to not give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

“You go home and get some rest," Lestrade went on. "Tomorrow’s going to be a long day - we’ll collect you and your brother in the morning, or you can come in by yourselves, if you like.” He smiled at her, but she didn’t seem to think this was good news at all.

“No, p-please, let me stay here, bring Eddy here, we’ll both stay, d-don’t make me go - they’ll know you want me to talk. Th-they said if I talked, they’d, they’d-”

She chocked off.

“There are only 4 people in the world who know you're here. Plus, I’m sure you’d be more comfortable at home-” Lestrade stopped as her protests continued to spill forth.

“Might I offer my services?” Sherlock said. “I’m happy to provide surveillance at your home for the night.” He could put off sleep for a little longer, and use the time to think. “You’d be quite safe with-”

Lestrade was shaking his head. “You can’t mate, remember?”

During the course of the interview, Sherlock had forgotten the extra pressure weighing on his ankle. He groaned.

“Oh for goodness _sake-_ ”

“Could you do that, though?” Julia asked Lestrade pleadingly. “Could you have someone stay with us until tomorrow?”

Lestrade frowned at Sherlock, displeased over the corner he’d been backed into. “Yes, I suppose so.”

“Oh thank you, thank you,” said Julia, slumping back in her chair with relief. Lestrade left the room, and Sherlock scraped himself up to leave.

“He’ll be back soon with your attending officer. Get some rest.”

“Thank you,” she said again. Sherlock contemplated her sorry state - he was sure the future held no great joy for her after they retrieved the information they needed. When Moriarty-

 _No,_ Sherlock thought.  _Moriarty’s dead_.

When whoever was _working_ for Moriarty found out that she’d disclosed her incriminating knowledge, they weren’t going to be pleased. Hopefully Sherlock would be able to catch them before anything serious happened - he made another mental note to ask Mycroft to place her and her brother into a witness protection program.

Lestrade was waiting for him outside, his arms folded in displeasure.

“Thanks for that, Sherlock, now I’ve lost an officer for the night.”

“You’re only annoyed because it means you’ll probably have to stay at the station and miss your dinner with _Monica_ ,” Sherlock said without sympathy, “but since you'd forgotten about it until a moment ago, I highly doubt you’d pinned much on the exploration back into the dating pool. Besides, I think Julia could be in serious danger, and you were hardly going to agree to having a four year old stay with her in the watch-house.”

Lestrade put his answer into the angry force with which he opened the door into the observation room.

“Algar?”

“I can’t, sorry sir, I’ve got to escort Mr Holmes-”

“I still can’t believe you’re seriously-” Sherlock muttered, but Algar continued over the top of him.

“And then I’m on the Nicholson homicide.”

“Fine. I’ll ask Donovan.”

Lestrade clapped John on the shoulder, then waggled a mocking finger at Sherlock. “You be a good boy now, Sherlock,” he said. “I’ll bring some dog treats in tomorrow so they’re here for you when you come in for the second round of questioning.”

“Oh, so I’m being _allowed_  to come back am I?” said Sherlock heatedly.

“Anything that’s relevant to the case, remember?” Algar said, holding open the door. “Come on, let’s get you home.”

Sherlock swept past them, noticing as he did that John was checking his watch and groaning: “Jesus, Mary’s going to kill me.”

They followed Sherlock out into the corridor, hastening after him, and he heard John ask the inspector:

“Do you think Pet London would still be open at this time of night? I want to get Sherlock a collar to match his tracker.”

“You seem to be forgetting that I have the capacity to construct and carry out all your murders in the most painful way possible, without any chance of being caught,” Sherlock fumed.

Despite the fact that his ears were ringing with vexation, he could’ve sworn he heard John chuckle and mutter “ _bad dog_ ” under his breath.


End file.
